


just gravity and me

by namelessdeer



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (except for the last chapter), (i'll fill this tag with my own two hands if i have to), Angst and Fluff, Autistic Byleth, Blue Lions route but it doesn't come up until the last chapter, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Ableism, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Canon, Self-Acceptance, Shutdowns, archive warning is for jeralt, i gave byleth a dog, jeralt's not perfect but he's trying, kids being mean, nonbinary byleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namelessdeer/pseuds/namelessdeer
Summary: Byleth is an uncanny child. Everyone says this, so it must be true.(Or: Byleth, growing up and finding their place in the world.)
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 12
Kudos: 202





	1. 3

**Author's Note:**

> SO!! this has been sitting around 90% finished in my docs for weeks at this point, and i finally decided to just start posting it to peer-pressure myself into finishing the last 10%. it was supposed to only be 5-7k, but apparently i have A Lot of thoughts and feelings on byleth's childhood, because it's currently about 11k and probably still has 1-2k left to go. i feel like several of these chapters are still pretty clunky but if I keep just staring at them I'll never post them. so!
> 
> i ended up putting a lot of heart into this. byleth is different from me in many ways, but a lot of their experiences are still modeled after my own memories of growing up neurodivergent. this entire thing felt ridiculously self-indulgent, so i don't know how many people will be interested in reading it, but hopefully a couple people will find & enjoy it ;w;
> 
> oh, also! byleth's nb. at first i was planning to put more genderfeels into this - examine gender identity more closely, etc - but that just ended up being too many irons in the fire. as such byleth is just referred to with they/them from the first chapter. i do have my Headcanons(tm) for sure, they just didn't fit in the scope of the story!
> 
> (oh ps, the title is from [into the spin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEO7w4HVlio) by dessa ;>)

Byleth is an uncanny child.

Everyone says this, so it must be true. Fortunately, Byleth is not overly concerned with such things yet, being only three and having no idea what it means. Their papa is really the only person in their world, and he is always there when Byleth needs him, so there's not much reason to pay attention to anyone else.

Privately, however, Jeralt agrees.

At three years old, Byleth has still never laughed or cried. In fact, the number of vocalizations Jeralt has heard them make is exceedingly few, as they are not yet talking either. They watch the world silently, with round, unblinking indigo eyes, and Jeralt cannot blame other people for being unnerved.

It is not that he does not love his child; he does. He is helpless not to. He would not have had the fortitude to make it through the first few years as a single father if he did not.

It's just - he _worries_. He has no idea what Rhea has done to the child. Will they ever speak? Are they able to? And how much are they capable of feeling, really? Are they able to return his affection? Will they ever show interest in other people? They consistently prefer to observe, sucking idly on a thumb, wispy dark hair falling over their eyes - and when approached by anyone other than Jeralt, they invariably turn away and retreat to a corner, or behind Jeralt's legs, or beneath whatever piece of furniture may happen to be nearby.

It is not, either, that Byleth isn't _smart_. He knows they are. They communicate well enough without words, tugging on Jeralt's sleeve to get his attention and pointing to whatever is the current object of their curiosity or desire. They cock their head in consideration when Jeralt speaks, and they follow commands - _usually_. They are, after all, a toddler. He has nearly taken to tying them to his waist with a length of rope after the number of instances he turned to find they had wriggled their little hand out of his and wandered away to inspect something or other.

Most people don't seem to appreciate this fact about Byleth, and it makes Jeralt bristle. "Poor thing," he's heard people murmur an uncountable amount of times, and some are even bold enough to ask, "What's wrong with the dear?"

"Nothing," Jeralt will always grit out, "is wrong with my kid."

And, Jeralt tries to remind himself, there _isn't_. Whatever peculiarities were born into them, whatever peculiarities are because of what Rhea did, these are just things that make Byleth _different_ , not things that are wrong with them. Sometimes Jeralt has to remind himself of that. Because Jeralt loves his child. But he _worries_.

And so: when Byleth speaks their first words as they're nearing their fourth birthday, Jeralt is immeasurably relieved.

*

Byleth is _bored_. Papa won't let them explore very far, and he won't take them with him when he goes on adventures. Byleth has thought of lots of different ways to amuse themself but these ideas have limits as they are always confined to either A) the tent or B) a field, or maybe C) Jeralt's shoulders whenever he needs to venture into town.

Out of the three the fields are their favorite. They've spent lots of lovely hours in fields. Byleth likes turning over rocks in their chubby little fingers. They like lining up the rocks in neat little rows, then starting all over to arrange them a different way. Byleth likes laying on their belly in the grass, watching ants scurry to and fro, watching ladybugs and praying mantises and aphids crawl up and down the blades, watching the little paths made by snakes and field mice when they pass. Byleth likes creeks and streams; they can spend entire afternoons fetching different things to set on the water and watch how they float away or listen how they plop.

The problem is: Byleth is getting big now. They know there are all sorts of things outside of the tents and the fields and even the glimpses they catch of the towns. But whenever Byleth tries to follow Jeralt when he goes away, he fixes them with a stern look and says it's too dangerous, and Byleth has to stay with whatever person he has paid to watch them this time (or, when times were really desperate and there was no one to watch them, to stay inside the tent to which they have been tethered by a rope to a tentpole).

This, Byleth has decided, is not fair.

But Jeralt has been decidedly unimpressed by their efforts to prove they can protect themself. When he caught them attempting to lift his sword, he shouted out in alarm, causing them to drop the one-third of the blade they had managed to raise and nearly slice off their toe. After that Byleth turned to smaller objects, as long as they were pointy, and began to seize upon very opportunity to snatch up a knife and wave it around in the air, tiny brows furrowed in concentration. In response, Jeralt has started wearing a pinched expression a lot of the time, and has had to keep finding more secure hiding places for the knives. Byleth, doggedly, became better and better at ferreting them out until Jeralt had had enough and solved the problem by keeping all knives on his person at all times.

Byleth feels very much like having a temper tantrum, which for them manifests as lying silently face down on the ground and refusing to move. It's a tactic which has caused many a caretaker to briefly panic in conviction they were dead. Their _very clear_ communication simply is not working: no matter how many times they point insistently at a knife, then at themself, their papa just does not get the memo.

Byleth will have to be more precise.

Nearly four, as solemn and unblinking as ever, they wait until Jeralt is solidly asleep before running about the tent, unearthing their favorite knife (its handle is very smooth), and papping Jeralt awake with a small hand on his cheek. He starts; there is a knife an inch and a half from his nose; his small child is hovering dispassionately over him in the dark.

"Papa," Byleth squeaks out sternly, the first words they have ever spoken: "Teach me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeralt: let me see what you have!  
> byleth: a knife!!  
> jeralt: NO
> 
> i headcanon that jeralt had several years of being very down on his luck before forming his band of mercenaries. i think he would have been even more paranoid in the early years so he wouldn't have the clout of his name as the blade breaker and didn't work with others often.


	2. 6

Byleth sits on a low stone wall, kicking their legs idly as they take bites from a crisp red apple. The hustle and bustle of the marketplace is a little overwhelming, but all they have to do is sit here and wait until Papa is done getting supplies and then it'll be back to camp. And besides, it's interesting here: there are so many people to watch, doing so many unfamiliar things. It'd be nicer, though, if all the people weren't so _loud_.

A high shout breaks out over the rest and Byleth's head swivels toward the noise, interest piquing. Is there a fight? Several more yelps break out and then a gale of laughter. Oh. It's a gaggle of children, dusty and bare-footed, playing out in the square. Five or six, most a bit bigger than Byleth.

Byleth studies their feet swinging back and forth. There are no other children back at camp, and so Byleth has very little experience with them. An itch of curiosity squirms in their gut, but Papa really was clear about, if they weren't following him into the crowd, to not move from this spot...

"Hey! Hey, you!"

Byleth's head whips up. In front of them stands the tallest of the children, a scrawny boy with a gap-toothed grin. "Wanna play with us?" he asks.

Byleth considers this. Byleth nods. They slide down from the stone ledge and place the half-eaten apple on it to return to later. The rest of the children have scrambled up behind the boy, peering at Byleth curiously.

"We're playing tag," the boy says importantly, as if this should require no further explanation.

"What's..." Byleth starts, brow pinching the tiniest bit, but the boy is already turning back to the others.

"Tag, you're it!" he crows, slapping another boy on the shoulder, and the game begins again in earnest, shrieking children wheeling off in every direction. Byleth, thrumming with nervous anticipation, takes off after one of the other children at random, feeling wrong-footed and off-balance already, but - they're doing it! They're playing with other children! They can play this game, they're fast and good at dodging -

\- at least that's what they think, until a hand whips out at them from the blur of movement and color and a voice shrieks, "TAG!"

Byleth is so completely startled they don't even make a sound. Instead they grab the offending arm and wrench it and its owner to the ground with more desperate strength than should exist in a six-year-old body.

The other child props himself up on the ground, winded, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish on land. The rest of the gaggle of kids hurry over, skidding to a stop around the two. The one on the ground stands up, wobbly, face twisting with emotion.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" he demands, stepping up in Byleth's space; he puts his hands on the smaller child's shoulders and shoves them back - they stumble, blinking, wounded; "Don't you know how to play tag?"

"I - " Byleth falters. If they say no, will that calm the other kid down or make him even more mad?

"Aren't you even going to apologize?" another kid scoffs, and Byleth turns to face her, bewildered. Something buzzing and acid is rising in their throat. How could Byleth know they were supposed to apologize? A minute ago they thought they were under attack!

"Whatever," breaks in the tallest kid, the one who invited Byleth to play in the first place. "You're not cool. Come on, guys, let's go play somewhere else."

The other children shift and glare, drifting after the leader of the pack, and Byleth, desperate to get them to stay, crestfallen at having ruined it so quickly, does something they will very much regret in a moment. Running after the others, they pant, "Wait! I'm cool," and when one shoots back a "How?" they blurt out the first thing that makes them different that they can think of:

"I don't have a heartbeat!"

It was only recently that Byleth found out this is something that makes them different at all. They've always loved Papa's heartbeat; that deep, steady thump is their earliest memory, pressed snug to Jeralt's wide barrel chest. When they have trouble sleeping all they have to do is crawl on top of him and pillow their head on the rise-and-fall of his chest until the sound lulls them to sleep.

The seeming incongruence that Byleth has never had one never bothered them; one day, reasoning that all the adults around them had one, they decided that their heart must just be too small, and it was just another thing they would have to wait for.

But a couple weeks ago, pressing their hand under their sternum to check and still feeling nothing, they asked, "Papa, when will I get my heartbeat?"

Jeralt responded by swiftly plopping them in a seat out of earshot and eyesight and, eyes darting from side to side, told Byleth they would never have one.

"Why?" asked Byleth; "It happened when you were born," is all he would say, and then he impressed on Byleth very gravely that they were never, under any circumstances, to mention this to another person or to let anyone find out about their condition.

Byleth promised. But Byleth is, after all, six.

Their declaration has an immediate effect. The kids pause. A few turn around, eyebrows knit. "Liar," the tallest one scoffs.

"Am not," Byleth insists, hands balled into tiny fists.

"Prove it then," the boy challenges, and Byleth strides forward, grabs his hand, and places it over their heart. The boy stops. Then he grabs Byleth by the shoulders to keep them still, pressing his whole head to their chest in an attempt to hear. Byleth tenses, frozen.

"You really don't," he says, incredulous. "What's wrong with you?"

The other children clamor: "What?" "Really?!" "Let me see!" "Hey, no fair, I wanna see!"

The boy still hasn't let go of Byleth's shoulders. The other kids clamor around, hollering and shoving. Byleth yanks from the boy's grasp, claustrophobic and distantly beginning to comprehend that this was a mistake. In response to this one of the other kids shouts gleefully, "It's a monster! Get it!" and all semblance of calm vanishes. Hands reach at them from all directions, grabbing and pushing and pulling. Byleth loses their footing and goes down hard, crashing onto the cobblestone. Before they can even begin to get up the other kids pounce on the opportunity to pin them to the ground and clamber over them.

Byleth's vision goes fuzzy as they buck and squirm - there's too many, they can't get free - "Stop," they gasp, "stop" - then someone is sitting on their chest and they _can't breathe_ \- 

See, the thing is, Jeralt hasn't actually let them have a knife yet. He's indulged them, taken them aside to show a few basic things, grip and safety practices - but he says they're still too young.

This hasn't stopped Byleth, however, from going out into the field and finding the pointiest rock they can, waving it around for hours pretending it's a sword. In fact, since Jeralt is never without a weapon, Byleth has taken to carrying the rock around, too.

They remember this when their chest constricts painfully and their vision blurs. Manages to inch their hand toward their coat, draw it from an inside pocket and then arc it upward with all their might.

Someone yells. Byleth doesn't really know what happens after that. They are trampled a few times in the chaos as the kids all scatter, sharp pain in their ribs and fingers. After what feels like hours but was probably only a few minutes, they roll to the side and pick up the rock, then limp out of the square and back to the stone wall.

That's how Jeralt finds them: huddled up against the wall, scuffed and bruised, bloodied rock in their hand as they stare at the ground, apple forgotten.

It's a long time before Jeralt brings Byleth into town with him again, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the kids didn't really _intend_ to trample byleth or otherwise physically harm them, but they were absolutely being little shits. also, the kid byleth shanked with a rock was not grievously injured, but did learn a valuable lesson about respecting personal space.
> 
> sorry i hurt the baby :'0 there will be a bit of jeralt pov again next chap but from here on out it's mostly byleth pov


	3. 9

When Byleth is nine, they refuse to speak to their father for ten days. They don't run to greet him when he returns from a day of work; they don't ask him to explain difficult words in the strategy textbooks they've been reading; they don't pester him for the sword lessons he's finally begun to properly give them, or the fishing lessons they enjoy almost as much and have far more patience for than any nine-year-old Jeralt has seen.

Jeralt knows why, and Byleth knows that he knows, and Jeralt knows that they know that he knows.

For the third time this year so far, the little band of mercenaries that is forming around Jeralt has up and moved, forcing Byleth to leave behind the latest stray cat they had charmed with patience and gentleness and morsels of fish.

This time Byleth dug their heels in. They argued, and begged, as much as Byleth ever argues or begs. They explained all the reasons why it wouldn't be much trouble to take the cat along with them. How Byleth would do everything to take care of it. How it would "teach responsibility". How they would keep it safe and calm on the road. As all of these logically thought out arguments refused to take, Byleth jutted their chin out stubbornly and their hands curled into small fists. They started to repeat themself, talking in circles, an increasingly frantic edge to the way they twisted their fingers and hands in their coat without even noticing.

"Byleth! No means no!" Jeralt snapped, finally, a rare instance of raising his voice to his child.

Byleth's eyes widened a fraction, and then they stared at the ground and said, "You want me to be lonely. You don't want to help me. You hate me." Any other child would have been shouting the words. Byleth's voice was terribly even, but their chin wobbled for a moment, and Jeralt could only watch in horrified fascination, wondering if this would be the first time he saw his child cry.

But in the end, Byleth just spun around and walked silently out of the tent, head down, hands balled at their sides. They sat at the edge of the camp with their head buried in their knees until it was time to leave. For the next week and a half their expression was closed-off and distant even by Byleth's standards, and they would not respond to a single word Jeralt said.

He doesn't know what to do. He knows it can't be good for Byleth, living so isolated on the road like this, but he has always thought about this in an abstract sense; it can't be good for their social development, which already lags so far behind, and children do better with stability, he's certain he has been told. But Byleth never gave any indication of being lonely, Jeralt thought; they seemed content to play and practice and read on their own. They rarely started conversations with anyone who wasn't Jeralt and even more rarely solicited anyone to join them in any activity.

Maybe, Jeralt thinks with a sinking feeling, he doesn't understand his child as well as he thought. Maybe he's made the same mistake that aggravates him so much when everyone else does - assuming that by just looking at Byleth he can tell the depth of what they think and feel.

*

It isn't _fair_.

Byleth knows they're strange. And not just because they don't have a heartbeat; Byleth doesn't understand other people, and other people don't understand them.

They rarely see children their age, and when they do, other children rarely tolerate Byleth for long. It mostly doesn't escalate to fights the way it did that one disastrous trip to the market, but the sting of rejection is the same, and Byleth finds themself growing leery of their peers.

Adults tend to be less cruelly honest about it, but they don't like Byleth any better. Jeralt is the only one who lets Byleth ramble on about what they're learning from their slowly growing library of strategy books. Byleth can stay curled up with one for hours on end, but most adults find it uncanny, such a small child blazing through such a large book, and they have no interest in listening to Byleth's rapid monotone recitation of the new facts they've learned today, no matter how gleefully their hands twist and dance through the air as they speak. The mercenaries do let Byleth join in on the occasional game of cards, although by now it seems to be mostly as a hazing ritual, to see a nine-year-old wipe the floor with an unsuspecting newbie in poker. 

For the most part the mercenaries are patient enough overall, but when Jeralt isn't around or when they think Byleth isn't listening - which is most of the time, for some reason, even when Byleth is definitely in earshot - they are much less indulgent of the child's oddities.

 _What's wrong with them?_ every new mercenary recruit stage-whispers at some point as soon as Jeralt leaves. _Are they always so quiet? So stone-faced? Are they slow?_ When someone has to look after Byleth since Jeralt is away on work, the mercenaries who remain in camp draw lots as to whose job it will be. They never seem pleased to win.

This does not leave the child with many options.

Animals, however... animals have always liked Byleth. Jeralt once rounded a slope to find a seven-year-old Byleth nonchalantly petting a deer (which immediately startled and bounded away).

It's something about their stillness. Their patience. Their utter at-homeness in the wilderness, which is really the only home they've ever known, when camp has moved and changed so quickly it isn't much of a home at all. Wild thing recognizes wild thing, and Byleth finds friends where they can.

("Am I a changeling?" they asked Jeralt, once, utterly solemn, age eight. He broke into a bout of his hearty, throaty laughter as they waited mulishly for an answer.

Byleth is nine, now. They know changelings don't exist. But sometimes they find themself wishing they did.)

*

The tenth day comes to a close. The silence is starting to ring in Byleth's ears. Maybe if they knew how to cry and pound their fists on the ground, they would. But they don't. So instead they wait for Jeralt to come in from the campfire and then sidle up to him, a thick tome clutched in hand. "Read to me?" they ask, presenting it to him, the book almost too heavy for them to hold out this far from their chest.

Jeralt starts, then he looks at them closer and his expression softens. "Sure thing, kiddo," he says.

It's the strategy textbook he bought them for their ninth birthday. They'd taken an interest in the tactical discussions the mercenaries had from time to time, at first listening with bright eyes and then attempting to insert themself by peppering questions and suggestions. Even Jeralt seemed a little overwhelmed answering everything.

"Your mother was quite the analytical thinker, too," he said when he gave it to them, a rare nugget of information that they seized upon like an ember glowing in the dark.

(Of course, they weren't 100% sure it was their ninth birthday. But awhile ago they had gotten so fed up with Jeralt's refusal to answer the question of their age that for a good three weeks the first words out of their mouth whenever they saw someone new was, "How old do I look?"

The most common answer seemed to be nine. Much to Jeralt's chagrin Byleth took this knowledge and applied it backwards through time. They're good at keeping track of things.)

Byleth is too old to sit on his lap, but Jeralt's low, methodical voice as they sit side-by-side on the floor of the tent is more comforting than a physical touch. Slowly, Byleth's inquisitive interruptions peter out and their eyes flutter shut, head drifting to rest against Jeralt's broad shoulder.

(For their tenth birthday, Jeralt brings them a dog. It is mostly full-grown, brown-and-black and floppy-eared with a thin tail that whaps across the ground.

"...I wanted a cat," they say, because cats don't overwhelm them like dogs tend to do, and Jeralt is already dragging a hand down his face. But then the dog ambles forward and sniffs them curiously, before pressing its weight to their side and dropping its head in their lap with a soft _whuff_.

Byleth runs their hands across its coarse pelt. "I like her," they decide, then nuzzle into her silky ear and say, "Ladybug. I want to call her Ladybug."

And, well. That's a glowing enough endorsement for him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't gonna give byleth a pet but then... i couldn't help myself....
> 
> (also i'm trying not to lean too hard into the savant trope, but like... given that i used to read about animals in the encyclopaedia brittanica for fun when i was like 9 years old, and copy out certain passages of it into a notebook (also for fun), and constantly pester ppl to fill out surveys i made about animals, i don't find byleth's behavior tooo unrealistic ssdjhskjg)


	4. 12

It is not a good day.

Byleth sits curled against the stable door, knees drawn up to chest, arms wrapped around knees, head buried in arms. Ladybug nudges at them with a whine, and Byleth only makes an inarticulate noise of distress and pushes Ladybug's snout away.

Jeralt sighs, deeply.

"Kiddo. Kid. Come on. I know I said I'd let you come with us this time but the job is going to be more dangerous than we thought. You weren't going to be allowed into battle, anyway, and you've seen me swing my sword around thousands of times."

Byleth is silent, the only sign that they are aware of Jeralt at all the further hunching of their shoulders as they press their face a little deeper into their cocoon. They have no way to explain that this has been building since the moment they woke up; the change of plans was genuinely upsetting but only the push that sent them over the edge.

"...Just one of those days, huh, kiddo?"

Normally Byleth might dignify this with a sullen nod but even thinking about moving is painful right now. Everything is buzzing and awful and they would curl into themself until they disappeared if they could. They feel like their head is being held under a whirlpool; oddly distant but terribly real, a frenzy of half-formed thoughts and feelings that go nowhere, almost connecting but then dropping off like cut threads.

Jeralt, if possible, sighs even more deeply.

"Alright. Fine. I can't stay here any longer, everyone else is waiting on me to leave. Go back inside as soon as you can. And remember to eat while I'm gone."

He doesn't leave. His presence buzzes oppressively at the edge of Byleth's awareness. Eventually it becomes evident that he is not going to leave without some sort of a reply so Byleth gathers themself and makes an acknowledging grunt.

"Right. Well. See you... later."

Footsteps pad away.

At Byleth's side, Ladybug whines again.

*

They're not sure how long it takes for the numb, tingling overwhelm to fade away. It feels like hours, but when they finally lift their head from the safety of their arms the sun has only slipped a little further down in the sky.

Upon seeing Byleth move, Ladybug lifts her head from her paws, tail whapping in the dust. She always does this when Byleth has an episode like that - what Jeralt calls, often with a trace of exasperation in his voice but never in a spirit of cruelty, their "mini-comas". Byleth can almost never tolerate being touched during it, but instead of leaving when pushed away, Ladybug will lay down a short distance off and watch Byleth protectively until they come back from it. She has been known to growl and posture when anyone tries to approach them in such a vulnerable state; she refrains from barking however, as when she let out a flurry of barks during one such episode Byleth emitted a sharp cry of pain and collapsed in on themself further, hands trembling over their ears.

Right now Ladybug only watches them inquisitively with a soft, inviting "whuff". Byleth lets their knees slide down and stretches out their arms with a mewling noise, and Ladybug trundles over, laying her head in their lap. Her tail thwap-thwap-thwaps and she licks Byleth's coat sleeves with wild abandon: a compromise they have come to, since Byleth hates the sloppy feeling of dog kisses on their face and has only a limited tolerance for it on their hands; but they know Ladybug only does it because she loves them, so they have resigned themself to sodden sleeves. They run their hands up and down Ladybug's smooth coat, press her silky ears to their cheek, rub the hollow between her eyes and snout. It's grounding, and they feel their thoughts finally even back out into neat, logical rows.

They feel wrung out and empty. Their throat is dry and there's an awkward pressure behind their eyes, even though they never cried. They briefly contemplate returning to their and Jeralt's room in the inn, making a nest of blankets and sleeping the rest of the day away - but, no. No, they have something they need to prove.

The sun hasn't slid that far.

If Byleth hurries, they can still catch up.

*

Trees and bushes blur past and something wild sings in their blood as they run, jump, and slalom through the woods along with the dog. Jeralt has still never heard Byleth laugh, but Ladybug has. After years of running loose through the forest together, the two are a match for each other, Byleth as swift and sure-footed in the underbrush as a hound.

A lot of the mercenaries say that Ladybug is half-feral, but that's true only inasmuch as it is of Byleth; which is to say, there is at least a little truth to it, and it seems self-evidently true to the untrained eye, but this is partially due to a lack of understanding. Ladybug is in some ways an ill-mannered dog, and does not sit nor hunt nor heel nor roll over on command. She nips sharply when annoyed and rarely shares her catch with humans. But this is easily explained: she is Byleth's dog, and Byleth could not understand the appeal of having a pet who is obedience-trained for usefulness or expediency. They wanted a companion; an equal. So, while Ladybug nearly always comes when Byleth calls, she largely does as she pleases. Incidentally, this mostly consists of frolicking with Byleth in the woods: investigating scents, barking at strange animals, splashing in the water while Byleth catches fish bare-handed, napping together on beds of moss and darting on impulse after hares.

("You really should teach your dog not to nip at people," Jeralt admonished them exactly once; Byleth gave him a blank, quizzical look and said, "Why would I do that? It's how she's able to tell people she wants to be left alone.")

She is used to Byleth swinging their sword around. She is not concerned at all by the way it flashes silver in the intermittent patches of sun today as they run.

*

The clash and clang of metal on metal.

The roar of human voices distorted by pain and rage.

The harsh light of fire as smoke twines into the air.

And, this: an adolescent child soaring out of the bushes, stone-faced, a brown-and-black hound baying from the underbrush.

Their grip on their sword is impeccable as they land neatly and launch themself into the fray.

Embers fly. They duck and parry, conducting themself in a near flawless dance as they twist through the wreckage. They need to find Jeralt: they want him to see this. He won't be pleased, but he needs to know that Byleth is old enough to join him now. That Byleth has been ready to join him on missions for awhile now. He wants to keep their world small, and underwhelming, and manageable - but they won't let him.

The cacophony of battle might be beating against their senses if it wasn't for the way everything comes together in perfect synergy. The countless hours of study and sparring slot together like puzzle pieces, like the click of a lock, and Byleth knows this is what they were born to do. The color and noise fade into the background as they let themself fall into a pure stream of instinct, body moving fluidly, thought too quick to catch.

Jeralt, the Blade Breaker, is of course in the center of it all. Byleth makes their way to him in an indeterminate haze of time, the battle beginning to peter out as most of the mercenaries' opponents are subdued. When they spot him the heart they don't have feels light in their chest.

"Papa!" they call, shoulders squared, stance wide -

\- and they lock eyes across a lull in the battlefield, a snarl of emotions like stormclouds passing over his face -

"Byleth?! What are you _doing_ here - Behind you!" he barks, and they whirl, heaving their sword up and -

\- the blade slashes right through the throat of the axe-wielding marauder who has reared up behind them. A hot spray of blood splatters across Byleth's face, their chest, their hands. The man gurgles and, clawing at his neck, falls to the ground.

"Ah," says Byleth.

It is the younger Eisner's very first kill.

*

After the battle Byleth sits with Jeralt and the other mercenaries at the campfire, expression impassive as ever as they wipe the blood studiously off their blade. Jeralt was, of course, furious, but they are almost certain their gamble paid off and they will be allowed to work with the company. They accrued a variety of minor scrapes, gashes, and bruises without even noticing, but sustained no major injuries. For the first time the other mercenaries reacted to Byleth in ways that were not neutrality, uneasiness, or disdain; in fact they have been crowded by people since the battle ended, whistling and saying this one's a keeper, how old did you say your kid was again, you'd be a fool not to let them help out. If few people get close, or speak to them directly, well. Some things don't change.

Jeralt has been watching Byleth with an odd expression all afternoon.

"Kiddo," he says, finally, when the other mercenaries have mostly wandered off to pack their things for the return trip; there's a strange carefulness to the way he regards them, the way he speaks, "Are you... happy?"

Byleth's hand stills over the blade. The silence stretches on so long Byleth almost expects to be called on it; they don't know how to explain that they're not really sure what that means. Laughing and smiling are signifiers of being happy, and Byleth barely does either, but is that all happiness is? They don't have a lot of the things that make other people happy - friends, a home to return to, a big family - but they've never wanted for much in their lifetime. There are things Byleth likes to do. Is that enough to say they're happy?

"In general," Jeralt clarifies, eventually, his tone profoundly awkward but his gaze intent. This does nothing to alleviate Byleth's confusion.

"...I like being helpful," they say, finally, head ducked down to study the once-more shining steel of the blade. "I like... being good at things."

Jeralt makes a noncommittal, acknowledging grunt in response. What's left of the fire spits and crackles between them.

Any more conversation is forestalled by Ladybug flinging herself out of the woods at last to reunite with Byleth, sniffing them head to toe and putting her muddy paws all over them in search of the source of blood. For once they let her lick their chin to assure her that they're okay, and then they're headbutting into her side for affection like a cat.

Jeralt watches silently. He does not put his head in his hands.

This, Byleth thinks, will be one of the turning points of their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seteth: how long have you been a mercenary  
> byleth: umm, like around a decade  
> seteth: i find that unlikely given your age  
> byleth: (bitch. don't try me)
> 
> (most unrealistic thing in this whole fic so far is byleth running off on a mission right after getting out of a shutdown, but like hey. their determination is not to be trifled with)
> 
> (also i got way more attached to ladybug than i planned to and it shows)


	5. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals week? Finals week. Like the other chapters so far, this one was also pretty much written, but I felt it needed some additional editing and I just couldn't find the time to do so until today. Thanks for bearing with me!
> 
> also warning for some bullying in this chapter (although it is shut down fairly quickly), and a bit of internalized ableism. (Don't worry; the Self-Acceptance tag is up there for a reason, it'll just take a little time.)

Byleth gains a moniker by the age of fourteen.

The Ashen Demon, people call them, and while they're still not sure where the 'ashen' part comes from, the 'demon' part is explainable easily enough. They take to the battlefield with a preternatural calm and skill beyond their years. Their appearance is distinctive, and Jeralt's band of mercenaries is well-known by now in this line of work, and rumors of the adolescent mercenary who kills with a masklike expression and ruthless precision have spread quickly.

Jeralt doesn't seem particularly fond of the moniker, but Byleth doesn't mind. It's an advertisement in and of itself, and having a reputation that strikes a bit of healthy fear into others never hurt anyone.

The implication that they are heartless - this, they are accustomed to enough, but it does bother them, privately, a little. It is true that they don't feel an overabundance of remorse over the lives they take. But why should they? Byleth grew up in this life; their father has been a sellsword for as long as they could remember. Human lives have always been the currency that bought the food they ate and the clothes they wore. Even other mercenaries find their indifference to death unnerving, but neither do those people set aside their swords and take up a more bloodless career. It's eat or be eaten, kill or be killed, a lesson Byleth learned early and often running through the woods like a wild thing, and they don't know why they should feel awful any more than the fox should over its kill.

It's this untempered practicality, after all, that has earned Byleth a seat at strategy meetings despite their young age. Those who have been in the company longer know it's worth it to lend an ear to what the captain's child has to say, even grudgingly, even if their suggestions are not always taken up in the end.

Today, the band of mercenaries is gathered around a table at an inn, a large map spread out in front of them as they plan out their next job. Byleth has the table, pointing to the map and making sweeping arcs with their finger. "See, if we split up and go around this way instead..."

By the time the strategy meeting has concluded, and after a bit of debate, Jeralt has worked the idea into the existing plans. But as everyone files away to their various rooms and duties, he catches Byleth by the shoulder before they can leave.

"What happened to your arm?" he asks, his voice low.

"I don't know what you mean," they say evenly, not meeting his eyes. Which in itself isn't unusual of Byleth; they generally prefer to avoid eye contact if they can get away with it.

"There's a burn on it," Jeralt says, tightening his grip.

He noticed when they were washing up after putting the horses away, the bare minimum to be allowed entry into the establishment. It didn't look like a horribly severe burn, but it goes up most of the length of Byleth's right forearm, accompanied by skid marks at the edge.

"It must've been an accident," Byleth responds, gaze flicking up and then back down again. As usual, the look in their indigo eyes is unreadable. "Can I go to the rooms now?"

Jeralt hesitates for a long moment, just long enough that Byleth starts to squirm. Finally he relinquishes his grasp and says, "..Okay. But remember to put some ointment on it, you hear me?"

"Yes, Jeralt," they respond drolly, making their way unhurriedly to the stairs.

"...And how many times do I have to ask you not to call me that?!" he calls after their retreating back. He can feel the beginnings of a headache brewing. "Honestly..."

It's not uncommon for Byleth to injure themself accidentally or be injured and not notice until some time has passed. It's believable that that might have happened.

Or it would be, if Jeralt hadn't noticed how furtive they were acting when they had to roll up their shirtsleeves outside, as if they didn't want anybody to notice.

*

By fifteen, Byleth has settled for being respected over being liked. It's almost as good, after all, and a much more attainable target to aim for. So they do their utmost to project an aura of competence and untouchability to everyone they meet.

This means they've become much more careful about hiding the traits that make people look at them askance. The way they twist their hands and fingers, the way that everything sometimes becomes far too much and makes them want to curl into a tiny ball or hide under a table like a prey animal, the way that words fail to come as easily and naturally to them as to everyone else. They've found that people will respect them a lot more if they suppress the things that alert others to how decidedly _different_ they are. Instead, people are free to read them as _unflappable_ and _stoic_ and _pragmatic_ rather than _weird, uncanny, wrong_.

Some people still get bent out of shape over Byleth, though. Mostly new recruits; mostly the younger ones, at that. They seem to hate the fact that Jeralt values Byleth's input; that Byleth is distinguished on the battlefield at their age. Byleth is largely able to ignore them. These newest two are more persistent than most, however. Even Ladybug has picked up on their hostility and growls at them every time she sees them across camp.

Still, they probably didn't mean for Byleth's elbow to skid through the campfire like that when they stuck a leg out to trip them.

Probably.

*

Byleth hurries around back to where they know a water trough is, a high buzzing filling their ears and chest. Ladybug is on their heels, hackles raised to deter anyone from messing with the two of them. Stupid. Stupid! They should've known better than to let their guard down, walking around camp with their nose buried in a book like that. Those two guffaw louder every time they manage to trip Byleth again and frankly Byleth doesn't blame them. It's humiliating that anyone can repeatedly get the drop on them, let alone new recruits. And seeing as it keeps happening next to a campfire like that, Byleth thinks as they pour cool water over their smarting ankle, it's probably _not_ coincidental.

"...Byleth? What happened, kiddo?"

"Got tripped into the campfire again," their mouth says absently before their brain can remember all the reasons they didn't want Jeralt to know.

"What?!"

...Shit.

Jeralt's hands come to rest on their shoulders, swiveling Byleth's torso to face him. He's kneeling on the ground now, same as Byleth. They don't meet his eyes.

"Byleth. _Again?_ "

There's too much happening for them to remember how to talk. The pressure on their shoulders and the proximity of Jeralt's face ratchets up the buzzing to a high-pitched whine and they can't think about anything except the way their chest constricts in on itself. Jeralt must recognize the way they've frozen up, gone even blanker than usual, because he retracts his hands and shuffles back a pace. Byleth rubs their arm where it was burned about a week ago. They still don't know what to say.

"Kiddo. Has someone been... bothering you?"

Ladybug comes up to their side, leans against them, a comforting weight with no expectation attached. They grew to regret not training her, a little bit; it was months and months until she stopped trying to run after them on missions, and Byleth spent a period of time terrified that she'd get herself killed on the battlefield someday. They run their hand idly across her fur as they formulate a response.

"...The two newest recruits don't like me. It's stupid. I didn't want you to know."

"Why _not?_ "

"...Because it's stupid," they repeat, fingers furrowing into their cloak in frustration, "I'm the Ashen Demon. I shouldn't have let my guard down."

" _Byleth_." Jeralt's tone is so unusually aggrieved that Byleth flicks their eyes up to study his expression. He's pinching the bridge of his nose, a dark cloud overshadowing his face. "You shouldn't have had to have your guard _up_. The mercenaries' base is your _home_."

"It's not important," Byleth insists, suddenly intensely uncomfortable for reasons they can't articulate. "After all, I'm..."

They trail off. There's a very odd expression on Jeralt's face. "After all, you're... _what?_ " he grits out.

"I'm... weird," they answer. "There's something wrong with me. It's natural that some people don't like it."

If anything, Jeralt's expression only sharpens. "Byleth. Kid. There's nothing wrong with you."

For several long moments, Byleth just stares. "...I don't have a heartbeat," they say, finally, because it's the most concrete fact they can come up with, impossible to refute.

Jeralt lets out a frustrated sigh, runs a hand through his hair. "But that's not _you_. I'm saying there's nothing wrong with _you_."

Byleth continues to stare. There's no suitable response to that. Because Jeralt isn't usually in the business of just stating something that isn't true. If he's just trying to make them feel better, that's nonsense, given that they're not very upset about this at all. Some people will never like or even respect them; that's fine. They've long since accepted it's just the way the world works. And if Jeralt believes what he said... well, Byleth is his child. He's not exactly the most unbiased observer.

"...Good grief." He stands, holding out a hand to help Byleth to their feet. After just a moment, they take it. "I'm gonna go tell those bastards they're out of the troupe. If this happens again, just tell me. Or heck, use your sword on 'em. They could probably use some roughing up anyway. No one'd be mad."

Byleth nods, trailing after him. Their chest feels just a little bit lighter as they run their fingertips over the hilt of their sword.

If some people are never going to like or respect them...

Well. They guess there's always _fear_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be out in a couple days as it won't need as much editing. Finals wrap up for me Wednesday and then I'll be able to devote my time to finishing the final chapter, which is only about half written. Take my estimates with a grain of salt but it shouldn't take more than a week. Thanks again for reading! I treasure all comments even if I don't get around to answering them :>


	6. 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for discussion of animal death in this chapter :( i gave byleth a dog and they didn't have a dog by the start of canon, so, y'know... i promise it isn't graphic tho!!

Jeralt has been away for a week and Byleth has been dutifully fulfilling their duties in his absence. As the child of the leader and a young adult in their own right, the mercenaries often look to Byleth when Jeralt is away, but in an uncertain, halting sort of way. The one thing that unequivocally falls to Byleth, however, is that any correspondence meant for Jeralt will be passed on to Byleth to convey.

Sometimes they end up running smaller missions while he's away. Mostly, though, it just means a break from his mother-henning. He's been unbearable lately, always finding something to fuss over in Byleth's routines and general demeanor. "Have you eaten yet?" "You turning in for the night soon?" "That cloak of yours needs a wash." "You been outside at all today?" and on and on and on. Given that Jeralt has never been the most hands-on parent, it's frankly a bit concerning.

They pull their cloak closer around their shoulders, hunching over the desk illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. Jeralt gave them the cloak over a year ago and they've rarely been caught without it since. It's elegant and grey, Byleth's favorite type of fabric, with slitted sleeves that flap out behind them when they run in a satisfying rhythm. They might've objected to such a clearly expensive gift but they're fairly certain it was Jeralt's way of trying to comfort them in the wake of Ladybug's death. Byleth was seventeen when she passed; not from following them onto the battlefield like they so often feared, but from a simple illness that overwhelmed her capacity to fight it. They'd intimidated more than one apothecary into attempting to treat the dog but nothing did much to slow the decline.

Byleth didn't cry when she died. They don't know why. But they were erratic and easily distracted for weeks. They careened into far more shutdowns than usual, when they thought they'd nearly outgrown them, and had no idea what to do to bring themself back. Ladybug's comforting, protective presence wasn't there to make them feel safe when they lost control; her soothing weight and the bristly drag of her fur weren't there to ground them. During one episode a couple weeks after her death, the overwhelming vulnerability of having no one to watch their back caused them to crawl into a closet in which they barely even fit. Jeralt didn't find them for hours - was on the verge of sending out a search party - and Byleth was at a loss to explain their actions.

Ladybug was their first friend, and a mere article of clothing could never take her place, but in the year or so since they received it the cloak has come to act as another sort of touchstone for Byleth. With the hood pulled up it can envelop them and block out the world when they're overwhelmed. The familiar texture quiets the buzzing in their head and helps them keep track of their surroundings.

They rub their fingers over one of the sleeves now, chasing away the fog of exhaustion from the corners of their mind. Jeralt is due to return tomorrow with all his _helpful_ comments on their sleeping habits, but if they can stay awake just long enough to finish this chapter...

"Kiddo?"

Byleth jumps.

Jeralt stands in the doorway behind them, looking tired and worn from the road but very much corporeal, brows drawn slightly together.

"Why are you here?" Byleth blurts out. "I thought you weren't due back until tomorrow."

His brows draw further together. Uh oh. "Kid, it is tomorrow. Even if the sun won't rise for another hour or so."

...Shit.

"Wait. Did you not sleep at all tonight?" Jeralt starts toward them and Byleth closes the book with a _clap_ , briefly bringing it up to press against their forehead. This is exactly what they were hoping to avoid.

"Sleep is important, kid. Especially as an adult. Your body isn't going to take too well to the all nighters in another couple yea - "

They hear him half-trip and then curse. Yup, there it is. He's noticed the other thing they were planning to conceal before he got back.

"...Did you not do the laundry a single time while I was gone? Honestly, Byleth. This kind of thing is why I worry about you. Did you take care of yourself at all while I was away?"

"I thought you weren't due back until tomorrow," Byleth repeats. It's in their signature monotone, but their tensed shoulders and the quick pace of the words speaks to a certain terseness.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Jeralt heaves a sigh. "You're meant to be an adult. If anything, it's more important when I'm not here-"

Byleth straightens abruptly. The book rests back on the table with a _thump_. "I am an adult."

"An adult who barely remembers to eat or sleep?" Jeralt's voice is strained with exasperation. And he always argues that they're competent, that they're worth listening to in front of others, so it shouldn't sting as much as it does. Or maybe that's _why_ it stings so much. Byleth stands, their back to Jeralt.

"I said. I _am_ an adult."

"Then why don't y-"

"I knew you were coming back tomorrow. Why would I change my habits to accommodate you while you weren't even here?"

"To _accommodate_ \- Byleth! I'm just trying to help you _function!"_

Byleth twitches. This is an argument, they realize distantly. They're having an argument with their father. And they don't know how to cry or scream, or else maybe they would. But they don't. So instead they just flip the hood of their cloak up, tugging it down to hide their face, blinker out their peripheral vision.

"Function," they say. Their voice is neutral but it's a dangerous neutrality, still as glass. "I complete all the tasks assigned to me. I excel at my job. Do you want to help me function? Or do you wish I would do things the same way as everyone else."

"Byleth..."

"Father." Their voice is steady, but their fingers are twisting, twisting in that familiar fabric. This question has been coagulating inside them for a long time, they realize. "Do I embarrass you?"

"Embarra - " He crosses the remaining distance between them in three long strides, turns them around by the shoulders and then pulls his hands back, searching their face with his oak-brown eyes. "Kid. I could never be embarrassed of you. Where did you get that idea?"

"Recently, you..." But the rest of the sentence escapes them; slips through their fingers like water.

Jeralt makes an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat. "Shit. Shit, kid. I didn't mean to give the impression..." He trails off, performs a complex mental dance on his face and then says, "Sit with me a minute, okay kid?"

So they sit side-by-side on the bed. The candle on the desk is starting to gutter, but Jeralt brought a lantern of his own when he came in. Byleth still doesn't take down their hood.

"Parents always worry," he starts, with an awkward clearing of his throat. "Or so I've been told. Someday you'll have to get by without me. And lately, I've been thinking - " He blows out a breath, looking up at the ceiling. "Lately I've been thinking I haven't done a great job preparing you for that."

"Without you?" they echo.

It's... impossible to imagine. Jeralt has always been with them, constant as the sun. Of course, they know in an intellectual way that no one lives forever, but...

"Sure," Jeralt says, in a way that seems like it should be a joke coming from anyone else, but spoken in an entirely serious cadence, "Even your old pops might wind up dying someday."

"...I think," their fingers curl inward, bunching the fabric, "I think I'd survive."

That startles a laugh out of him, short and explosive. "You would, wouldn't you? I at least taught you that. Or, no. Who am I kidding, you've been a survivor from the start. ...It might sound strange, but I think over the years you've taught me more than I've taught you."

Byleth turns to face him. "...How?"

The flickering lanternlight throws shadows onto his face that make him look old, far older than his physicality would have you believe. "I'm always learning things from you," he says, and there's an odd wistfulness there, but also an unbearable fondness. 

They frown, just the slightest quirk of the lips. "Because I'm different?"

"Partly," he admits. "But mostly because you're my kid."

Silence stretches between them. There's still a knot of tension somewhere in Byleth, a worry waiting to be released that they cannot name. Jeralt is regarding them with an unusual intensity.

"Byleth. You don't hear this often enough, and I think that's my fault, but..." He makes a face, almost a grimace, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "You know I wouldn't trade you for any other version of you, right?"

Byleth stares.

Jeralt rambles on: "You'll always be different, and some people'll take to you better than others, but that's the same for anybody. You're whip-smart, and you're kind, even if it's in ways that most people don't notice, and you're the most observant person I've ever met. Shit, kid, do things a different way if you have to, I don't care about the laundry. I don't always understand it but-"

He cuts off at the set of arms wrapped fiercely around his torso. Byleth's hood has fallen down, loosing their tousled navy-blue hair. Their eyes are squeezed shut as they press their face into his chest, right where the reverberation of his heartbeat is the strongest, just as they used to when they were a little kid.

Jeralt softens like a pat of butter. He shifts to a more comfortable position for the hug, bringing a hand up to ruffle the soft strands of hair at the nape of Byleth's neck.

"Love you too, kid," he murmurs, barely audible. "Love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter ft. Things I Wish My Parents Would Have Said To Me (+ a bit of ominous foreshadowing)
> 
> also, ik byleth's coat was modeled off of historical monk outfits n stuff but i took one look at it & thought "the only acceptable reason to own a coat w sleeves Like That is that byleth Finds It Stimmy"
> 
> (next chapter: byleth finally makes it to garreg mach monastery and has the opportunity to truly connect w a group of people for the first time. will be a bit delayed due to finals week. gl to all readers who are also going thru finals!)


	7. 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byleth: you mean?? i can just infodump?? and they'll pay me money for it???
> 
> (note the updated archive warning - i didn't think i was going to cover jeralt's death in this chapter but, welp, turns out i did!)
> 
> also this turned out literally 3 times longer than any of the previous chapters, dear lord. i think it's still a little awkward in places but mostly i'm happy with this end to the fic!

At the monastery, everything is different.

It's... overwhelming. Jeralt has always been cagey about his past, about Byleth's mother and their early childhood, to the point they learned that asking questions about it was an exercise in futility. He wanted to keep them safe from something; they'd accepted that.

And now: the girl in their head, fully awake for the first time they can remember. The unnerving weight of Rhea's gaze, piercing them over and over with a question and an expectation - clearly they are _something_ to her, but what?

A _teaching_ job that they've suddenly been thrown into with no qualifications, at one of the most prestigious academies on the continent.

They panic silently immediately upon accepting it, going to ravage the monastery's libraries for anything resembling a manual that will tell them how to do this job. Byleth is not in the business of failure. There isn't a whole lot - mostly they end up sidetracked into books on the history of Fodlan and the church, which is just as well, given there is a shocking amount of information Jeralt evidently thought unimportant to provide.

But, to Byleth's surprise, they don't have much trouble acclimating to the profession. In fact, they're told, they take to it like a duck to water.

Lectures consist mostly of something they've always wished people would let them do more of: discussing the interests they're most passionate about. After people seem to react positively to their first few, uncertain sessions, they spend several near-sleepless nights planning a curriculum in meticulous detail. Ideas flow one to the next with ease; a synthesis of everything they know about their students' strengths and weaknesses, memories of training and fighting with Jeralt, and the wealth of information from strategy textbooks over the years. Byleth can't remember feeling so invigorated since... well, since the first time they picked up a sword.

More challenging is the social aspect of it.

There are people everywhere. Unavoidable. And while Sothis is sometimes able to offer advice on how to interact with them, sometimes her voice is just another lost in the clamor of the crowds. Their students especially...

That old, nervous itch about being around people considered their peers tap-tap-taps insistently in the back of their mind. Byleth tries to ignore it best they can, tries to think of the students as just subordinates on a mercenary job, anything to give them some model of how to interact with them.

The thing is... the model doesn't fit.

"You want to... have tea with me?" Byleth asks, dumbfounded, and Annette nods enthusiastically, clasping her hands in front of her chest.

"I just got ahold of the perfect blend!" she squeals. "Please, Professor?"

 _Oh, go bond with your student,_ Sothis scoffs, so Byleth agrees.

They have no idea what to expect, finding it rather unlikely that this will have a positive outcome even if it doesn't devolve into a negative one. But Annette doesn't seem to mind how stoic and quiet they are. She does most of the talking herself, soliciting Byleth's opinions and advice with genuine delight at the attention. "This was so fun!" she says at the end, apparently oblivious to Byleth's surprise.

And the thing is: it keeps happening. Byleth doesn't seem to have to do anything to earn their students' respect or admiration. They keep waiting for the novelty of the enigmatic professor to wear off and to start getting complaints from faculty and staff about their cold demeanor and unnerving habits, but it doesn't happen. The most that occurs is Seteth pulling them aside a few times to explain some social faux pas they've made in their ignorance of the customs of the church, but it doesn't seem to actually _bother_ anyone very much.

"The students keep wanting to see me during my free time," they tell their father over an evening meal. "I don't understand it."

"Byleth," Jeralt snort-chuckles into his beer, "I think they like you."

 _Why,_ they just barely keep themself from saying, because it could too easily be misconstrued as self-pitying. It's just that there's no _logical_ reason for it. Is there?

Everything is different, here. Byleth doesn't know whether or not that's a good thing yet.

But as the months slide by, somehow slow as molasses yet quick as a dragonfly's wings, they find themself settling into it. The weight of scrutiny lifts from their shoulders, and they find it easier and easier to just _be_. They soon have a nickname for nearly every stray cat in the monastery, plying them for affection with fish from the pond and sweetmeats from the kitchens, until seeing Byleth on break _without_ a scruffy cat purring in their lap is more noteworthy than the opposite. Before long they're issuing their own invitations to tea, finding it an easy way to get to know someone better, and it becomes simple enough to prod the other person with questions and comments so Byleth doesn't have to carry the conversation. On more than one occasion they've been praised for being a _good listener_ , which seems more a byproduct to Byleth than anything else but each time it's said with such _sincerity_ they can't help but accept the compliment.

They make jam in the kitchen with Mercedes and Annette; learn how to garden with Ashe and Dedue; spot misplaced items with an eagle eye to the point that they become the de facto lost-and-found of the monastery.

Once, they start losing their words in the mess hall on a particularly sensory-sensitive day, and no one hassles them or looks at them askance for it. Instead there's only concern, and as Byleth tries and fails to grasp the words to explain what's wrong, hand halfway lifted to their hood before they stop at the realization that they can't explain that either, Dimitri and Mercedes finally shepherd them outside. _Are you hurt or sick?_ Mercedes asks. _Do you want us to go?_ And Byleth shakes their head no to both questions, sinking to the ground in a quiet corner of the courtyard behind the mess hall, their students guarding them from prying eyes as they flip their hood up and take deep breaths until the buzzing fades.

"Professor? Are you with us again?" Dimitri asks.

 _What was that?_ neither of them demand, but Byleth feels they should try to explain anyway. "That's - it just... happens sometimes. When there's. Too much," they stammer, and grind their knuckles into their eyes, "I didn't. Sleep well. It's." The last thought doesn't go anywhere, and Byleth looks up, searching their eyes for the judgment or pity that must be there.

Instead, "Do you need us to help you back to your room?" Mercedes asks, and there is still only genuine concern on both of their faces, if a bit of awkwardness in Dimitri's, and more comprehension - if foggy - than they could ever have expected.

If Byleth knew how to explain the brand-new emotion swelling in their chest, they would... but they don't. So instead they plant flowers.

They like gardening, they find. The greenhouse is quiet but resplendent with life, and it reminds them a bit of the days when they ran wild through the forest with only Ladybug and the trees for company. It's satisfying, to watch something under their care blossom and grow, tucked in soft peat, nourished with water and bonemeal, inching day by day toward the sun. They find a book on the language of flowers in the library one day, and there's a soaring in their chest as they think, _Oh. I can do this._

They don't know how to console or comfort with words, their efforts at encouragement or admonishment clumsy at best. But they know how to grow flowers, how to clip the delicate stems and wrap them into a bouquet for delivery upon their next rounds of the monastery. And, while they don't always have flowers with the correct meanings in their slowly growing plot of the greenhouse, they can usually round out the edges of their vocabulary with fresh cuttings from the marketplace.

Oxeye daisy (patience) and hollyhock (ambition) to a student who recently failed a certification exam. Goldenrod (encouragement) and dandelion (overcoming hardship) to students who seemed downtrodden, and occasionally sunflower (loyalty, but mostly for its cheerfulness). Pink roses (gratitude) and freesia (friendship) as thanks for thoughtful gestures and kind words.

At first the students seem a little bewildered, but it seems Ingrid catches on quickly; for a time students run straight to her to consult. Soon it becomes simply commonplace to see a member of the Blue Lions walking back to their rooms with a fresh bouquet. Once, when Sylvain's antics reach a particular low, Byleth presents him with columbine (faithlessness) and white catchfly (betrayal) and walks away without a word; Ingrid collapses into hysterics in the background. When Lonato dies, Byleth takes painstaking care to put together a bouquet of snowdrop (consolation), elderflower (compassion), and azalea (take care of yourself) to present to Ashe, and he promptly bursts into tears in the middle of the cathedral.

Marigold (grief) and white peony (bravery) to Sylvain after Miklan; blue tulips (trust) and a single iris (hope) to Dimitri after Remire; a similar bouquet to Dedue, after people murmur about him during Flayn's disappearance.

Careful and tentative, like a crocus in spring, Byleth tests out the art of making their inner emotions explicit.

"You seem happy here," Jeralt says one evening, like he's trying out the words, and Byleth contemplates this.

"Do I?" they wonder.

"Yeah," he says, "you do."

Is that wrong of them, when Jeralt is clearly so uncomfortable here? When the shadow of Rhea's intentions dogs their every step? Byleth doesn't know.

It all comes to a bit of a head after the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion. They lead the Blue Lions to a narrow victory over the other two classes, and the warm glow of pride Byleth feels lights them from the inside out. They've never had reason to feel proud of another person before. It fizzes, like cider.

And then, after the celebratory feast: Dimitri. Earnest and honest and serious, as always. Broaching, with his usual lack of tact, the conversation Byleth had finally felt safe not to expect anymore.

_When you first came to lead our class... you unnerved me._

Never smiled. Never got angry. Void of emotion. Uncaring of others. Impossible to read.

He does not speak any of these things the way others have done in Byleth's life, like an accusation or condemnation. Instead - it is as if he finally solved a puzzle and is bringing the results to Byleth's attention. As usual when they have no idea how to respond, Byleth freezes, expression locking, spine straight.

 _It was as though you had no humanity whatsoever,_ Dimitri says, and Byleth must have flinched, visibly, because Dimitri rushes to follow it up with _You're different now._

 _No,_ Byleth wants to wail, _No, I'm not,_ but they stand and nod mutely as Dimitri describes how he has been able to decipher the humanity in their words and actions in the half year since, how invaluable they are to him, how glad he is to know them. Byleth stands and listens and maybe even smiles a little bit as the rest of the Blue Lions catch up and add their voices to the chorus, thanking them for the victory, for the school year, for being who they are.

It should be Byleth's crowning moment.

It's not.

There are too many half-formed thoughts, too many vague pains lancing across their mind with no discernable origin nor point of termination, just dissatisfaction and the feeling of something slipping through their fingers like sand. They give up on sleep, drift to the empty cathedral with its fractals of moonlight thrown through the colored glass. They love the acoustics here. They never gave thought to singing a day in their life before they came to the monastery, but the hymns in this place leave them transfixed, make them want to overcome the tune-deafness Jeralt says they got from him, even if they understand only about a third of the religious content.

They don't know why they came here, precisely. It's not as if there'll be any singing in the dead of the night. But there's a certain quality the cathedral has, something about the wide vaulted spaces, the hollowness of it, that makes Byleth feel alone even surrounded by people in the pews. Makes them feel infinitesimal in a way they've only experienced camping on rolling plains and looking up, up into the vast night sky and its crowded, distant splendor of stars.

It's comforting in a way they're not sure they can explain.

There's a footstep.

Byleth whirls, hand flashing to hover over the pommel of their dagger.

"Professor?"

It's Mercedes. The moonlight limns her silhouette, softening already-soft features until it looks like she could fade away like a mirage.

Byleth's throat works. They sink back into the pew, gaze fixed on the smooth stone floor.

"Are you alright?" she asks, step-stepping closer. The sound rings through empty space.

"What about you?" Byleth makes themself say. "It's the middle of the night."

"Ah, me?" Mercedes responds lightly. Byleth's senses prickle as she comes nearer and perches on the edge of the pew beside them. "I have trouble sleeping, now and again. It doesn't cause me too much trouble, but when it does happen I like to come here to pray."

Mercedes and her faith. They don't understand it, but they envy her, a little, for having something she can believe in with such simple clarity.

"But I've never seen you here at night, Professor," Mercedes placidly plows on, "Do you have insomnia as well? Or is there something troubling you?"

The silence must stretch on for a little too long while Byleth tries to figure out how to order words into anything resembling an answer, because Mercedes amends, "You needn't feel like you have to tell me. I am your student after all, even if we are close in age. I wouldn't want to pry."

Byleth's tongue unglues; this one's simple. "No, it's okay." And then the words are falling out of their mouth, spurred on by some combination of the cocooned reality of the cathedral and Mercedes' unassuming manner. "That's actually - what I was thinking about, a little. I've never had people like you - like all of you, before."

Their fingers curl in on their coatsleeves, Byleth's constrained version of a wince. They're so much more eloquent during lectures, but then, they always have a lesson plan to go off of.

Sure enough, Mercedes' head cocks to the side in confusion. "Students?"

"No," says Byleth, and then the word _friends_ sticks in their throat, because what if they've been assuming too much? "People who - " _People who like to spend time with me,_ but do they really?

_It was as though you had no humanity whatsoever._

What if everyone felt that way - feels that way - and is just too intimidated to tell them?

Why did they think this was any different?

"Friends?" Mercedes prompts gently.

Byleth's eyes dart away to the side, but their silence and convulsive swallow give them away.

"Professor," Mercedes says, "I truly don't mean to pry, and I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But I was one of the first to leave the feast, and I overheard the end of your conversation with Dimitri. He said something thoughtless to you today, didn't he?"

"I - " Their fingers tremble. They don't know what to make of it.

_It was as though you had no humanity whatsoever._

They tell her everything.

Not just their conversation with Dimitri; they go back to the start, a messy unraveling of their life in front of her, and half of the things they're saying it's the first time they've expressed it to themself, either. They keep stealing glances at her, looking for annoyance or impatience, but there's only a slight furrow to her brow as she nods and makes soft sounds and says, "Go on."

So: they tell her. About the alienation. About how some things others find easy have always been hard; about how the things they should've found hard have always been easy. About how confused they were, until Byleth made the simple deduction that they themself were the problem.

"I think," they say. They stop. "I think I forgot, that. That loneliness wasn't a prerequisite of being me. I think I forgot that I was lonely. It was background noise, like a heartbeat." _Like my heartbeat,_ they don't say. Their gaze is distant, voice near toneless as they finish the story. "But it's different, here. People want to spend time to me. People listen to me, without Jeralt telling them that they should. People here try to understand me. And then, Dimitri..."

 _It was as though you had no humanity whatsoever,_ he said, and all Byleth could think of was the countless times people said, _What's wrong with you?_

"I haven't changed since I came here," they say, straightening up, and think of their conversation with Jeralt, "I'm just... happier. That's all."

Mercedes is silent for a long, spun-out moment. Byleth is too nervous to look at her face.

"It seems to me," she says, finally, delicately, "that you have been done a great disservice by the people around you so far."

They look up and find her frown deepened, fingers twisted around each other in her lap, something like pity in her liquid lavender eyes. No - not pity. The same as that day she and Dimitri shielded Byleth from the crowd when they got overwhelmed in the mess hall. Something like - compassion, and it lodges in Byleth's chest like a strangely wrapped gift they can't begin to know how to open.

"You remind me... well." Mercedes' hands clench tighter in her lap, gaze suddenly faraway, consumed by a deep and sad nostalgia. "I don't mean that you're like a child. But you remind me a bit of my little brother. I haven't seen him in many years, but - many considered him a difficult child. He didn't get along with others easily, and he could come across as arrogant. But if you took the time to listen to him, to understand him - he was the sweetest boy in the world. I worry that, without me..." Her voice wavers, and Byleth is about to reach out, put a hand on her shoulder, try to say something to comfort her, but she shakes her head, refocuses on the present.

"What I mean to say, Professor," she goes on, "is that it may take more or less effort for any two people to understand each other, but if people in the past would not put in that effort for you, to meet you halfway, that is no one's fault but their own. And their loss," she adds on with a frown. "Personally, I don't find you so difficult to understand, and though you may be my professor, I also consider you my kind and attentive friend."

Her eyes are so clear, so certain. Suddenly, it's nearly impossible for Byleth to think. They feel like a great weight has been slid off of their chest - or like a dam has been released, full of unnamable emotions that without even realizing it they had long ago stopped allowing themself to feel.

"I've... never thought about it that way," they manage finally, voice a bit choked. "Thank you, Mercedes."

She shakes her head. "Thank you for always being there for us students! If I had been you, I might not be able to be so open with others."

That startles a smile out of Byleth, wry but honest. "I think you're the first person to ever describe me as 'open'."

"Well!" Mercedes brings a hand to her mouth with a chuckle. "I like to think I'm better at reading people than most. And it's not as if I've been bereft of practice at Garreg Mach. You're hardly the only eccentric person here."

The heavy atmosphere in the cathedral is lifting. Byleth feels limp but refreshed, like a wrung-out cloth. Like the earth after rain. Mercedes is right, isn't she? There are students here with their own peculiarities, some similar to Byleth's, and their classmates adapt to and appreciate them. Bernadetta, who gets overwhelmed in crowds and needs a lot of time alone in her room afterwards. Linhardt, who often stays up the whole night researching and operates with an unselfconscious lack of tact, and who reminds Byleth, in general, uncannily of themself in their teenage years.

...Dimitri, who struggles to connect with others on a personal level but patently longs to do so; who approaches absolutely everything with the same level of whole-souled intent.

"I can give Dimitri an earful for you if you need me to," Mercedes says mildly, as though reading Byleth's train of thought.

"...No," says Byleth. "It stung, to hear him say that. But I think the more important part is what he said after. He tried hard to understand me the past six months. And now, he thinks of me as a friend." They're smiling, again. "It would be hypocritical of me to berate him for his bluntness."

"If you say so," says Mercedes, and she's smiling, too; indulgently, though they're not sure of whom.

"And Mercedes?"

"Hm?"

"If you ever need to talk, or for me to give someone an earful," the words untested in their mouth but forging ahead all the same: "don't hesitate to come to me. Alright?"

"Of course," she says. "Byleth."

*

Jeralt dies.

It's brutal and sudden and not even Sothis can stop it.

"To think that the first time I saw you cry... your tears would be for me," Jeralt gasps out, and Byleth bends over his body and keens.

The old drumbeat starts up in their heart; _alone alone alone_. Now that they have started crying they don't seem to know how to stop. They return to the monastery in a daze; brush off the awkward hands of their students; curl up in the corner of their room in the dark, mud-streaked cloak pulled close around them, the scent of blood cloying in their nostrils.

 _I think... I think I'd survive,_ they'd told him. But how can they when he has always been their only tether to the human world? How can they when he has been the only constant in an ever-shifting, chaotic existence? They are an infamous mercenary, a beloved teacher, a renowned strategist, but right now they feel like nothing but a lost child, alone in the tent and wailing for their father to come back for them.

"Shh, shh," Sothis soothes, running ghostly fingers through their hair. "Sleep, child. Rest, and cry as much as you need in the morning."

Somehow, eventually, they do.

*

They wake to afternoon light streaming in through the window, dust motes swirling in the rays. There is a crick in their neck and their limbs; they fell asleep sitting up and jammed against the walls, still ensconced in the cloak Jeralt gave them when they were seventeen. Their throat is dry. Their eyes are crusty. Distantly their head is pounding.

A light rap at the door; instinct tells Byleth it isn't the first time.

"Professor?" It's Ashe's voice, hesitant but earnest.

"Your little ones are calling for you," Sothis says unnecessarily, a light hand resting on their shoulder.

Byleth clears their throat, the sound awful and ragged, and croaks out a "Yes?"

"We - some of us, well... we just wanted to - "

"We'll leave it outside your door if you're not ready to see us," Dimitri breaks in, firm but as gentle as they've ever heard him. "But we wanted to all wish you well."

"...Coming," Byleth says, a little less hoarsely. It takes entirely too long to summon the strength to push themself off the ground, shamble toward the door and turn the lock. They know they must be a sight, hair plastered to their face, still in the same clothes they stumbled to their room in last night, bags like bruises under their eyes. By the time they make it to the door, they half wish the students have given up waiting and gone on with the day. Still recovering from a head rush, they swing the door open, waiting for the mass of light and color to resolve itself into an image, and...

Byleth stares.

The entire Blue Lions class stand arrayed outside the door, nervous but sincere. Their arms are overflowing with flowers, the air perfumed and heady with petal-scent. Blooms of every color and size and shape, the meanings flickering through Byleth's head on automatic, long since encoded from hours of poring over books and working in the greenhouse and laboring over how best to convey their message with a bouquet. Asphodel, snowdrops, and chrysanthemum from Ashe; verbena, white hyacinth, and sweet pea from Mercedes; statice and magnolia, white and pink roses from Ingrid. Annette clutching goldenrod and red carnations like an offering, her own eyes red-rimmed; Dimitri, fidgeting anxiously with a fragrant bundle of chamomile, sage, and thyme; Sylvain, his casual, exaggerated body language belying the seriousness in his eyes and his armful of red poppies and yellow pansies. Dedue, with a splendid spray of flowers Byleth doesn't know the names of but that they recognize from his garden plot in the greenhouse which he always tends with such care. Even Felix is there, a fistful of daffodils thrust out and red to his eartips.

"...Professor?" Ashe ventures. "Is this okay?"

"Oh," Annette bursts out, "It's too much! I knew it was too much, right away - "

Byleth bursts into tears again, loses their grip on the doorjamb and crumples to their knees.

The students burst into a worried frenzy, hovering like hummingbirds, but Byleth is already shaking their head, smiling tremulously through their tears, struggling to gasp out the words: "No, it's - _thank you,_ " they say, wavering voice alien to their ears, "I'm _happy_ , I'm just - so happy."

If _happy_ is an odd word to use less than twenty four hours after their father's death, no one mentions it. Instead they all rally around their sobbing teacher. It's all a blur of motion and noise but someone bequeaths all of the boquets of flowers upon Byleth's room, crowding them onto every conceivable surface until the room is a riot of color, Byleth's own love language mirrored back to them loud and clear everywhere they look. Annette stays with them, rubs their back and lets them cry onto her shoulder while Mercedes tidies the room and Ashe dashes to the kitchens to whip up something for Byleth's breakfast-slash-lunch. Dimitri and Dedue stand guard at the door, shielding Byleth from prying eyes and politely turning away anyone who asks about the commotion.

 _I think I'd survive,_ they told Jeralt that one day years ago. They never knew they could be so wrong and so right at the same time.

Wrong because back then they had been thinking of it purely in physical terms; they knew how to look after themself, knew how to wield a sword. But now they know: if they'd lost Jeralt back then, they don't think they ever would have fully recovered from it. Perhaps they would have melted from the face of the earth, become the fey and feral thing people so often took them for in youth. Jeralt had been their home, the only person who had ever understood them, and Byleth doubts they could've stomached staying with the mercenaries without him.

But - by so many twists of fate - they had been right. They have another home now; another family. For the first time in their life, they have somewhere to belong.

Byleth sobs on the floor, chest caving in from the gaping hole their father has left, and knows - inexorably - that someday, somehow, they are going to be okay.

*

(When they merge with Sothis, they have to relearn themself again; but it isn't nearly so difficult as they thought.

Staring at their reflection, the hue of their hair and eyes in the half-light: Byleth tries out the thought, _I am not entirely human_ , and is startled to find they don't mind.

It's not a confirmation of what people have said about them, not in the way they feared. _Byleth_ will choose what this means to them: a greater power to protect those whom they love.

And does it _matter_ , whether or not this is the root of their strangeness? Byleth is Byleth is Byleth.

They know who they are.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent way too long reading abt flower language for this dear god  
> inspired by the habit i got into in my playthrough of giving sunflowers (and other flowers) to characters whenever they seemed to be going thru a particularly hard time ;w;
> 
> originally i was gonna use hanakotoba for meanings but i couldnt find a reliable source that gave a wide enough range of emotions so i used a list of western flower meanings. i could be off on some of them, and i'm aware that it's almost definitely impossible to grow and obtain all these flowers w/i the same season/environment but i already spent way too much time on research for a few paragraphs, pls don't hurt me :'p
> 
> meanings of flowers in the final scene w the students (according to my source) since i couldn't include them smoothly:  
> asphodel, snowdrops, chrysanthemum: death, consolation, you're a wonderful friend  
> purple verbena, white hyacinth, sweet pea: I weep for you, I'll pray for you, goodbyes  
> statice, magnolia, white roses, pink roses: remembrance/sympathy, perseverance, reverence, gratitude  
> chamomile, sage, thyme: energy in adversity, wisdom, courage/strength  
> red poppies, yellow pansies: consolation, remembrance  
> daffodils: respect
> 
> (also. yes i did sneak my autistic linhardt headcanon in there. what of it)

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://aphel1on.tumblr.com) ❤️


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